


Ghost in the Graveyard

by venis_envy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Hand Jobs, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, fun with magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-17 09:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1382242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venis_envy/pseuds/venis_envy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The party cleared out pretty quickly after the Boy Who Cried Wolf, but a handful of people remain in the graveyard. Mostly Stiles' guests of the supernatural nature who aren't put off by the idea of a wolf prowling nearby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost in the Graveyard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sapphirescribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphirescribe/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Wolf and Raven](https://archiveofourown.org/works/826344) by [sapphirescribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphirescribe/pseuds/sapphirescribe). 



> This is a remix of Sapphirescribe’s Wolf and Raven. It picks up just after that one ends, with not much going on in the plot department.

Stiles stumbles into the woods after him, breathless with laughter.

"Derek, wait," he stage whispers, but it's no use. He's sure Derek isn't so far away that he can't actually hear him, but he isn't turning back, and Stiles doesn't have the benefit of supernatural infrared vision to see where he's gone.

He splays a hand out on the cold stone of a tomb, uses it to guide him out of the shroud of trees and back into the moonlit cemetery.

The party cleared out pretty quickly after the Boy Who Cried Wolf, but a handful of people remain in the graveyard. Mostly Stiles' guests of the supernatural nature who aren't put off by the idea of a wolf prowling nearby.

Nixie smiles knowingly as Stiles approaches.

"Weren't you wearing a shirt earlier?" Oona asks, because of course, someone has to.

"Must've fallen off," Stiles replies with a sly smile, swiping a beer from the cooler beside Isaac.

Isaac punches him playfully on the shoulder. "We were thinking of putting together a game of Ghost in the Graveyard. I don't think you'll stand a chance with the way you shimmer in the moonlight."

"Hey, you're one to talk." Stiles considers flicking his bottle cap at Isaac, but has a strange aversion to littering, so he shoves it into his pocket instead. "I'll be it first. That way you'll all have an advantage."

"We've already got an advantage over you, Stiles," Oliver pipes in.

A chill runs down Stiles' spine at the sound of his voice. He knows all of the people he invited to the party tonight, both human and not-quite. He's comfortable with them for the most part, and the ones he doesn't trust completely, he at least trusts to know that he's the boyfriend of the Beacon Hills Alpha and not to be fucked with. Stiles also knows, though, that vampires play by their own set of rules, no matter the game.

Stiles ignores Oliver’s remark and inventories the small group of remaining guests instead.

Nixie and Oona are perched atop a low-lying mausoleum, arguing with Boyd and Jarek, the sidhe Stiles met on his trip to the Redwoods last spring. The girls are saying the game is more of a spectator sport for them, unless the group cares to take it to the lake and make it a game of Marco Polo instead. While the merfolk are friendly enough, Stiles happens to remember a particular run-in with a water nymph that wasn't all that pleasant, so he's quick to rebuff that suggestion.

Stiles finishes off his beer in the time it takes Lydia to commandeer the conversation and declare Nixie and Oona (and their tomb-throne) home base. There are less than a dozen people leftover at the party, and even fewer playing the game, which should give Stiles at least a small chance.

"Where'd Derek go?" Scott asks, creeping in from the shadows like a Ring Wraith with Allison close behind.

“He needed a minute,” Stiles replies.

“Okay, does everyone know how to play?” Lydia looks around at the group, apparently determining that, no, they don’t know how to play the game. She lets out a long suffering sigh and clears her throat. When she’s got everyone’s attention, she begins to go over the rules. “Stiles is the ghost, so everyone else will close their eyes while he goes and hides. No using supernatural senses to cheat your way through—”

“I can help with that,” Leaf says. He’s leaning against a tomb with his arms crossed, watching the interactions like he tends to do.

Stiles likes Leaf. Deaton introduced them freshman year of college because he thought Leaf would be able to help Stiles hone his spark, get a better grip on his magical abilities. Stiles still can’t do much, but, to be fair, neither can Leaf. Most of his magic is just party tricks and sleight of hand.

Leaf steps forward, smiling crookedly at Stiles, and places his palms against Stiles’ bare chest. Stiles feels an unnatural warmth spread through him, radiating out from Leaf’s palms and throughout Stiles’ entire body, the wings on his back practically buzzing with the familiarity of Leaf’s magic coursing through them.

“What are you doing to him?” Scott asks, eyebrows furrowed in that concerned expression Scott wears so frequently.

“Relax, puppy,” Leaf says, dropping his hands from Stiles’ chest. “It’s just a shroud spell. It’ll wear off soon. We don’t want anyone being able to sniff him out, do we?”

Stiles trembles slightly when Leaf breaks contact, the feathers ruffling against his shoulders before he pulls the wings back away from his sensitive skin. He’s always a little bit more sensitive right after any magic is used on him, which is one of the reasons he really doesn’t allow it all that often.

“Why can’t I hear his heartbeat anymore?” Scott takes another step closer, his expression turning almost angry.

Stiles laughs. He loves how protective his best friend is of him, even after all they’ve been through, after all the times Stiles has proven himself more than capable of taking care of himself.

“Unfair advantage,” Leaf explains with a shrug. “It’s still there. Just muffled so no one cheats.”

“Clever,” Lydia says, though her tone suggests she’s anything but impressed. “Stiles will have three minutes to hide,” she continues. “When that time is up, we all go searching for him. Whoever finds him first will shout ‘ghost in the graveyard,’ and everyone will run back to the safe base without being caught by him.”

“Sounds easy enough,” Oliver says. He’s still eyeing Stiles like Stiles is something to eat. Which, really, he _is_ , but that won’t be happening. Stiles’ lip curls up in disdain and he shifts his focus away. “I’m sure no one here will have a problem outrunning him.”

“Also rectified,” says Leaf. Stiles looks up at him in surprise, and Leaf winks. “Just a bit of pick-me-up, so you aren’t so sluggish.”

“Hey, I think I do a pretty good job of keeping up, thank you.”

Leaf shrugs and raises a hand toward Stiles. “I can remove it, if you like.”

“Go away,” Stiles says.

“Everyone ready then?” Lydia ties her hair back into a ponytail and smiles wryly at Stiles. “Go,” she says calmly.

Stiles wastes no time at all slipping off into the shadows. It’s a pretty big cemetery, so there are plenty of places to hide, but he knows that Isaac is familiar with every inch of it. Having been a groundskeeper there throughout high school, he could pretty much get to any grave just by name alone in sixty seconds flat. There are places Isaac doesn’t go, though; places he won’t even talk about.

Stiles heads in that direction, crouching low in the shadows and careful not to step on the crisp, fallen leaves despite the shroud charm. The magic is effective, yes, but Stiles can’t always rely on such things to keep him hidden and safe, and what better time to practice ones stealth than among friends with little actual danger? Stiles is still mildly concerned about Oliver, but that’s more good sense and awareness than actual fear.

There are monuments of various sizes and shapes all across the cemetery, plenty of places to hide, but Stiles doesn’t want the tallest, most noticeable mausoleum to hide behind. The shadows of the stone crosses don’t seem to be dark enough, so he moves on to the outer edge, the older part of the cemetery that creeps Isaac out.

There are small headstones all around, one of which Stiles stumbles on before hip-checking a sarcophagus. Some can’t even be considered headstones, just rocks pressed into the ground hundreds of years ago, few with names and dates chiseled into them, some just years, others completely blank and nothing more than markers.

Stiles moves into the more decorated part of the old area, dips and weaves between huge monuments, sidesteps the smaller gravestones. There’s a six foot tall statue of an angel — Michael, Stiles thinks, absently —  with his wings spread out and curled in on his sides.

Stiles could climb into the curve of the stone wings, tuck his head beneath Michael’s chin and hide there, he’s sure, but the irony of it is too much. He moves around to the side of the mausoleum, presses his shoulder to the cool stone there and curls his own wings around his shoulders.

It’s dark in this part of the cemetery, the moon barely able to shine through the thickness of trees overhead, the inky shadows smudging together at the edges. Stiles takes a deep breath of the cool night air, and listens. He’s far enough away that he doesn’t really expect to hear anyone approaching just yet anyway, but he wants to make sure he’s in tune with the sounds around him. There’s an occasional breeze that picks up, rustles through the leaves and shakes a few more loose from their branches overhead. In the distance, off to his left and outside the boundaries of the cemetery, Stiles can hear the swishing of the brook that cuts through the land.

He isn’t there long —  a minute, maybe two —  when he begins to worry that Isaac’s irrational fears of the oldest graves in the cemetery aren’t entirely unfounded. There’s an eerie calm around him, as if the night itself has gone silent in wait. Stiles shakes off the strange feeling that’s prickling at the back of his neck, hunches his shoulders and tilts his head to better listen to the nothingness around him.

There’s a half-formed thought in his head to leave this part of the graveyard, slip back into the shadows and creep over closer to where the base is, but before Stiles has fully decided on doing that, the air around him seems to shift. There’s no breeze anymore — not that he can feel, but he senses it nonetheless. A shift in the atmosphere that he isn’t familiar with but his oversensitized skin seems to respond to. There’s a soft caress on the back of his neck, a whisper of breath and nothing more. It causes the tiny hairs there to stand on end as his skin prickles.

Stiles flinches, prepared to turn and fight whatever it is. Before he has a chance to to react, an arm is slipping around his waist, claw-tipped fingers pressing against the flat of Stiles’ abdomen, tugging him back deeper into the shadows of the mausoleum.

It takes Stiles' body a full three seconds to catch up with his mind and relax into the figure behind him. Of _course_ it’s Derek. Stiles’ energy and the borrowed magic on his skin recognized that before his brain had the chance to.

Stiles reaches a hand back, curls it around Derek’s hip, and is probably more surprised than he should be to find it isn’t bare skin he comes in contact with.

He laughs quietly, and shakes his head.

“You left me to get clothes? And you didn't even bring me a shirt?"

"Of course I brought you a shirt," Derek says, leaning in to mouth at Stiles' ear, his fangs scraping gently and causing Stiles’ knees to weaken. "I just don't think you need it." He smoothes his free hand down the edge of Stiles’ wings before wrapping his arm around Stiles’ waist and pulling him even closer, crowding into his space like he belongs there, because he does.

It’s the only time tonight that Stiles has found himself regretting the decision to wear magical wings. His skin is so sensitive to touch, his whole body aches for contact with Derek. He tilts his head back against Derek’s shoulder, eyelids fluttering closed for a moment, before he regains his self-control and ability to speak.

“Why are you all wolfed out?” Derek is obviously no longer in full wolf form, just beta.

“I couldn’t find you,” he replies before leaning down and licking Stiles’ shoulder.

His tongue is hot and smooth, and Stiles groans in approval, rolling his head to the side as Derek kisses his way up Stiles’ neck.

“And that helped?” Stiles manages.

Derek shakes his head, the points of his fingernails scratching gently against Stiles’ belly, just under the waistband of his pants. “You’re wearing tree-boy’s magic,” he explains.

“Leaf,” Stiles corrects. “And how did you find me, then?”

“I have no idea,” Derek replies. “My sense of will and a strong desire to get you off?” He pops the button of Stiles’ jeans open, slides the zipper down and drags his fingers down the front of Stiles’ briefs.

Stiles has no idea how long he’s been hard, but with the way his dick reacts to the slightest touch, it seems like forever. He lets out a shaky breath and Derek laughs against the side of his neck, kissing him there again.

“We’re in the middle of a game, and this isn’t exactly in the rule book, you know?”

Derek slips his other hand into the front of Stiles’ jeans, sucks a mark into Stiles’ shoulder before moving around to the back of his neck. He mouths at the hairs there, breathes him in as his hands frame Stiles’ dick, fingernails dragging against his thighs.

Stiles fumbles the hand on Derek’s hip, tries to slide it around into his waistband, determined to reciprocate, but Derek shifts his hips closer, making it impossible.

“Not necessary,” he says, tugging Stiles briefs down and pulling his cock out. “I’m just returning the favor from earlier.”

Stiles thinks he should probably tell Derek to go ahead and save that for when they get home. There are, after all, nine supernatural creatures prowling the graveyard in search of him right now and they could be caught any minute. But Derek’s hands are so warm, his embrace so welcoming, and Stiles just _needs_. He can’t force the words off of his tongue, just soft sounds that seem to encourage Derek on.

Stiles gives up the futile mission of getting his hand down Derek’s pants, draws it up and over his shoulder, curls his fingers around the back of Derek’s neck instead.

“How long do you think they’d continue to search for you if I took you home right now?”

“All night,” Stiles replies, his breath hitching as Derek’s fingers wrap around the base of his cock. “Or, at least until the shroud spell wore off and they realized I was gone.”

“There’s a hum under your skin,” Derek whispers, like it’s a secret he’s unwilling to share with the stones around them. “I’d love to know what you feel like inside right now.” He strokes Stiles’ dick with one hand, the other slipping back up Stiles’ stomach. His muscles twitch and tense under Derek’s fingertips. “See if that constant flutter is still there with my dick stuffed inside you.”

Stiles makes a noise he’s sure the others can hear if any of them are close enough.

“Later,” Derek says. “We’re gonna find out for sure.” He twists his palm around the head of Stiles’ dick, thumb pressing against the slit and catching the precome there before sliding back down.

Stiles can’t help the involuntary jerk of his hips, the way his body chases the friction when Derek’s hand moves up his shaft. He’s panting hard as he fucks into Derek’s come-slick palm, his head still resting against Derek’s shoulder. Stiles works his throat, swallowing down the cool night air. He chokes back a groan when Derek’s hand slides around his neck, palm pressed against Stiles’ Adam’s apple, thumb pushing at the pulse point beneath his ear.

Stiles gasps. He knows there’s no threat of Derek actually choking him, but the thought of it, the idea of that much strength and power in one hand… Stiles nearly comes from the thought of it.

Derek is just feeling him, touching him everywhere he can. He slides his hand back down, fingernails scratching lightly as they go. He wraps his arm around Stiles’ waist again as if to hold him up, keep him steady. “Or maybe the other way around,” he says, voice low and deliberately heavy. “Have you inside me. See if you’re still buzzing like this. If it feels like one long orgasm with you twitching inside me, filling me up.”

“Jesus _fuck_ , Derek,” Stiles rasps, vaguely aware of his fingertips digging into Derek’s forearm and the back of his neck. The bruises won’t last, but Stiles still has enough presence of mind to loosen his grip anyway. He focuses his energy instead on aggressively fucking Derek’s fist.

Derek drops open mouthed kisses all along Stiles’ shoulder before closing his teeth around the muscle there. He doesn’t bite hard; just enough to keep Stiles in the present as he jerks him off hard and fast. He’s thrusting against Stiles’ ass, rocking his hips forward and guiding the rhythm.

There’s a swirling sensation low in Stiles’ belly, the steady coil of his oncoming orgasm combined with a spark of magic he’s never experienced _this_ way before.

It’s so good. Everything feels so fucking good, and Stiles feels it tingling all the way into his fingertips.

Derek drags his hand up Stiles’ chest, presses his palm flat against the spot where Stiles’ heart is hammering wildly. Stiles comes with a series of violent little twitches and too-loud whimpers. His’ vision whites out, the night sky above them going bright and splotchy.

His breathing hasn’t even steadied yet, chest still heaving and dick still throbbing in Derek’s hand when he hears a voice he only vaguely recognizes shout “Ghost in the graveyard!”


End file.
